


your heart overwritten

by bummerang



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Self-Worth Issues, Semi-Canon Compliant, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-26 21:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13866600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bummerang/pseuds/bummerang
Summary: Sometimes, in the morning or after a quick shower, he would linger at the mirror, lightly tracing the letters of Salem's name, black and sharp along his collarbone. Once in a while, the mark would flare with a burning pain that lasted days, throbbing, distracting. It was inconvenient, but as it was likely to be a sign of Salem's frustration, then at least something somewhere was going right.He took some comfort in that.





	your heart overwritten

**Author's Note:**

> Yaaay, a sort of winter fic in March~~ I started writing this shortly before New Year's, but then I got stuck and life became busier for a couple of weeks. This thing got away from me drastically, but regardless, I hope some of it is still enjoyable~

Ozpin was careful about his clothing.

His sartorial preferences were anything but secret, and though most people knew what he was like by now, the summer season never failed to produce at least one person marveling at his positively supernatural ability to keep cool while fully done up in a suit. And he'd smile and make some glib remark—while quietly skirting the edge of heat stroke.

The only time he gave it up was when he was safely hidden away in his private rooms, where the only scrutiny he had to avoid was his own.

It was a trial, some days. Sometimes, in the morning or after a quick shower, he would linger at the mirror, lightly tracing the letters of Salem's name, black and sharp along his collarbone. Most days, he could glance over and think little of it. Others, he found distraction in work. And others still—well, he'd been doing better lately. He'd replaced the previous bottle over three months ago and it was still mostly full—but that might have had more to do with Qrow being too busy to drop in.

Once in a while, the mark would flare with a burning pain that lasted days, throbbing, distracting. It was inconvenient, but as it was likely to be a sign of Salem's frustration, then at least something somewhere was going right.

He took a bit of solace in that.

\---

Hazel saw it once, many years ago.

Ozpin had been changing in their dorm—he'd thought his teammates had gone to the city for the day—when Hazel strode in without warning. Still in the middle of buttoning his shirt, Ozpin had frozen in sudden overwhelming panic before he remembered that the name written over his collarbone had no significance to anyone but him.

Of course, that was no longer the case, these days. But he remembered Hazel awkwardly joking about it, how he would have offered to show his own slightly-formed mark if he didn't think Ozpin would stab him for indecent exposure.

_But that's—very surprising. I'm a little jealous._

_Of what?_

_Is that a joke? Do you even realize how lucky you are? Anyone would be jealous. Your mark filled out. You've met yours._

His smile had been subdued. _In a manner of speaking._

He came to learn over years—the many in him, the few that he was—that everything truly was a matter of perspective.

\---

He hadn't always been what he was now. Once, like all the others who had come before, he'd been less. Just a single ordinary person.

And just as it had been for the rest of them, Salem's mark was not his first.

His first was on the inside of his left wrist. Where Salem's flared up only on occasion, this one always hurt. The pain in it had remained constant for years, a dull bone-deep ache, and he'd long since given up hope that it would ever fade.

Strictly speaking, the mark did not quite exist anymore. Instead of the curved line of red ink it had once been, now it was a puckered red welt, as new and tender as it'd been when he was fifteen, crying silently in a washroom stall with nothing but a dead person's voice in his head trying to offer comfort. He hadn't wanted it. It hadn't meant anything. Not with the wrenching ache in his chest as he'd felt the single letter burn from his wrist, and certainly not when the same sensation started tracing below his neck, a hot needle searing an entire name into his skin.

Inexplicably—terribly—it'd felt _right_.

And it was, in its way. He remembered Salem. Her laughter in sunlight; afternoons lying with each other in the shade of an oak tree; deep conversations by quiet brooks. Her wit as she blazed the Court with her contempt, and her voice as it called to him to join her. To be free, together. Her hands, cool and calloused, in his hair, over his throat—and much later, when magic meant more than freedom, when what they'd had was too broken to be fixed, her nails raking down his back as she whispered regret in his ear—

He remembered.

And there it was, everything good and everything not. He'd loved her. Still did, perhaps. He felt that too, a longing that ached fiercely in his chest, even as a part of him was sickened by all of it.

His first life. His life now _(stolen, shared)_. What did it matter, really?

Destiny was cheap. Thousands of years of knowledge, emotion, and experience crammed into his very soul gave him some authority on the subject. This same experience, names erased and his heart overwritten, and it felt _new_ every single time—because it _was_ new every single time.

Salem's name stood in full, black and sharp, an indisputable claim—but he had no more than a pitiful 'C' of the person he might have known, who might have belonged to _this_ life. What was an ordinary human compared to an immortal with a link that transcended existence?

His soulmate hadn't stood any better a chance than Ozpin had.

And yet, all these years later, the little crescent mark still hurt. He used to think—rather whimsically, hopeful despite everything—that it was some remnant of defiance. That maybe somewhere out there his soulmate refused to let him go. But he'd been a different person, then. And now he knew that it was merely another reminder of what he was.

There was still a part of him—smaller, unwilling to forget and be forgotten—that would give almost anything to know their name.

But it was better this way, really. A letter was just that, a single character with little meaning. But a name was much more. It was weight and substance, a beginning, a possibility. And he didn't need more of a reminder of what he'd lost.

\---

Speaking of things he didn't need:

Qrow was sitting on his desk, blithely swiping the screen of his scroll, going on about a brief adventure he'd had with a hunter in one of the smaller towns on the main road to Vacuo. Ozpin wasn't listening as well as he could have been because he was focusing his considerable attention toward making sure his hand didn't accidentally bump Qrow's thigh. As a result, the report he was writing to the council had a sizable right margin.

It was a beautiful day. The air was brisk and clear, and the clouds weren't quite dark enough for anything more than a light dusting of snow. There was no need for Qrow to linger after giving his report, and yet he was still here. Ordinarily, Ozpin would have enjoyed this. Qrow was a fantastic storyteller, and it did Ozpin some good to hear about the world he had very little opportunity to see nowadays. (The last time he left the continent intent on a brief excursion, Glynda had been sent after him. But she'd been sympathetic. Ozpin still owed her greatly for pretending to lose him over some mountains in Mantle, thus buying him another week.)

He would have allowed himself the pleasure of Qrow's company for as long as was possible. But he was beginning to realize that this was the problem. Ozpin had allowed himself too much.

And Qrow was...obliging. Ozpin would think he was doing it on purpose except that Qrow's default setting was 'languid flirt' even when that wasn't his intention. When Qrow became accustomed to people—which was a rarity in itself—he showed it. And Ozpin— _fool that he was_ —felt flattered by the trust and flustered by the proximity all at once. Especially the latter as of late. Every time Qrow leaned close enough to brush against him, even something as innocuous as a hand across his shoulder or a knee bumping his own, Ozpin would go still in blind panic, finding himself much too aware. It was distracting, it was cruel—

“—huge tree full of mistletoe,” Qrow's voice cut through his thoughts, just a touch louder and pointed than before. “So we took it as a sign and fucked right then and there—“

“I certainly hope not,” he blurted without thinking. When Qrow started snickering, he knew he'd been caught out—and gods above, his brain was giving him _images_. He was tempted to slam his head on his desk, but Glynda would never forgive him for the mess.

“We didn't, but obviously us beating up grimm wasn't raunchy enough for you.”

Ozpin glanced at him sternly before lowering his pen with a sigh. With Qrow's attention came the rest of him leaning down to peer at Ozpin closely, brow furrowed with what might have been concern. Ozpin _did not_ sink further into his chair. Much. Instead, he avoided Qrow's gaze, staring at the edge of his desk hard enough that he fancied a single spark of magic could set it aflame.

“Am I bugging you?”

“No.”

“You all right?”

 _Gods, no._ “Yes.”

“All right, good talk.” He snorted at the quelling look Ozpin shot him and nudged Ozpin's arm with his knee. “You really gonna spend all two-ish weeks here writing shit for that panel of blowhards?”

“It's likely.”

“They're probably not gonna read any of it.”

“Perhaps.” That was rather the point of writing it by hand. One of the more interesting perks of his reputation for eccentricity was the sheer amount of ridiculousness he could get away with, such as writing official documents in overly loopy, barely legible cursive. If the council required bi-weekly write-ups of the grimm population of the forests bordering the school, they could very well deal with his attempts to discourage them.

“Fuck, Oz, you really gotta get outta here before you die of boredom.”

He _was_ boredom. “The work must be done.”

“The work can wait. Hell, the council has the whole fucking month off, and like another week after the week they get back just _'cause_. You can take a measly three weeks guilt-free.”

He wouldn't have felt any guilt whatsoever, but he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to be, and there was certainly no one waiting. He supposed he could always barricade himself in his rooms until the new year. The idea had some appeal. There were books he'd been trying to get around to reading for years—

He jumped a bit when Qrow clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. “Just think about it, yeah? A break will do you good.”

“You're leaving?” He winced at how quickly he'd said it.

“Yeah. Got a few errands, then I'm off to Patch for a couple of days.” He grimaced. “Tai's gonna regret this. You know, the last time I spent more than four days there, part of the roof caved in. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Just some stuff in the attic got ruined. But the girls like to go up there and—they weren't there at the time, so that's the most important thing.”

But they could have been, and that dulled the relief. “Your family wants to spend time with you.”

Qrow's frown smoothed out. “I know. I mean, we kinda have a plan. I'm just gonna have to spend a couple of hours outside every day, let my Semblance wear off and catch on a fucking tree or something. Not that it's guaranteed to work. Luck doesn't exactly have a timer. But Tai says it's worth trying.”

“It is.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed absently at his arm, looking speculative. “You couldn't bottle up some of that magic, could you?”

The question had some merit. “I don't think it's possible. Why?”

“'Cause you're the only person I can be around longer than a couple of hours without shit falling apart.”

Oh. Qrow's tone was mostly casual, but there was a note of irritation in it. Ozpin tried not to be bothered by it. It wasn't about him, he knew. It had to be incredibly frustrating for Qrow to be unable to spend any prolonged period of time with his family.

“Qrow,” he started—but what could he say?

But Qrow was already rounding the desk, striding quickly for the elevator. “Anyway, I really gotta get going, so—“

“I'm sorry,” he said, and Qrow stopped dead on the threshold. “I wish I could do something for you.” Not because of his work in the field or the determination for this cause that even Ozpin found difficult to muster at times—but _for_ him. Because he was important to Ozpin.

Qrow looked over his shoulder. There was a softness in that gaze, in the line of his smile. “You already do. Happy Solstice, Oz.”

The elevator door closed and Ozpin was left alone, uncomprehending, in the silence.

\---

Three days later, at the asscrack of dawn, an airship noisily appeared about fifteen feet above Tai's front yard. “Boss said express,” the pilot said to a bleary Qrow, looking pretty bleary herself, shrugging as she handed him...trash.

“It's a package,” the pilot insisted. Qrow wasn't the most lucid thing in the mornings, but he was pretty sure the big ball of crumpled paper in his hands was trash.

“Are we looking at the same thing here?” Qrow waved the ball in her face.

She squinted at him judgmentally. “It's from the boss, all right? He...looked pretty out of it, but he ain't the type to send me out with nothing.” With a helpless shrug, she jogged back to the rope ladder before Qrow's caffeine-starved brain could even think to ask her who her boss was.

Well. It probably wasn't anybody that wanted him dead. Those assholes tended to be way more direct about it.

Whoever wrapped this thing either had a pretty weird idea of how wrapping worked or they didn't give much of a fuck. There was tape all over, little pieces randomly dispersed over the white ball. When he ripped it open, he discovered that it was blue on the inside. Closer inspection revealed tiny snowflake patterns. Whoever wrapped it had done it inside out.

He frowned as he pulled out a small plastic cup covered all over with cling wrap, filled nearly to the brim with green glitter. That was it. Just glitter. A little warily, he held it away from his face and gave it a good shake, but nothing happened.

There was only one other thing in the 'package'—a folded note, and it was written in a familiar, if uneven, hand:

_I bottled it. Don't worry, it won't explode. But don't inhale._

\---

Ozpin—twitchy with sleep deprivation and three days worth of assorted caffeine sources in his system—blissfully crashed after he sent off his little experiment and a compensatory check with the pilot.

It was the best sleep he'd had in a while. Though it left him feeling groggy and heavy, it was also blessedly dreamless. He woke from time to time over the next two days only by necessity, but between the pocket of warmth beneath his pile of blankets and the frigid air beyond them, he decided, for once, to leave productivity until after the holiday.

And so it was—for about three hours after the next time he fell back asleep.

Then came the tapping. Loud. Insistent.

He had no idea what was making it or where it was coming from, but that didn't matter. He stubbornly kept his eyes shut.

The noise grew in pace for a brief moment, erratic, aggravating—then peace.

Until a familiar, muffled voice called, “Oz, open the fucking window.”

No. It couldn't be.

“My nuts are gonna get frostbite. You wanna be responsible for that?”

Ozpin wriggled out of his cocoon until he could peek around it and— _gods._ It _was_ Qrow. Crouched on the narrow ledge outside, bundled in a thick jacket against the cold. Ozpin fumbled out of bed and lurched to the window. He couldn't quite hold back the shiver as a gust of cold air followed Qrow through. He fell a little into Ozpin as he stumbled for footing among the books that had been piled on the floor beneath the sill.

“Doors exist for a reason,” he said hoarsely, not yet entirely awake, but Qrow's frozen hands in his were making some decent progress there.

“I tried the door. I don't think you heard me knocking. And your scroll's off,” Qrow added accusingly. He quirked an eyebrow. “You know, when I said you should take a break I didn't mean fall off the face of the planet.”

Ozpin had suspected that turning off his scroll would turn out to be a poor decision, though this wasn't the consequence he'd had in mind.

“I apologize.”

Qrow stood back—nearly tripping on the books again—and gave him a once-over. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, it's fine. I should be up.” Unfortunately. Then his brain finally caught up with the rest of him—he was still holding Qrow's hand.

Ozpin's expression remained carefully blank, but he could feel a blush trying to happen. A lifetime of experience had taught him that his face was terribly partial to them.

With rather less grace than he'd hoped, he slipped his own hand away and turned, feigning a light coughing fit. He'd chosen an old turtleneck sweater to sleep in, but he couldn't quite help it when his hand went to his collar, just to make sure. Feeling the soft fabric gave him a small measure of relief. “Did something happen?” he managed after a moment.

“No?” Qrow said uncertainly, drawing out the word, frowning as he considered the possibility. “ _Did_ something happen?”

 _You're in my bedroom_ , but he quickly realized this wasn't something he wanted to say out loud. “Aren't you supposed to be in Patch?”

“I was, up until a few hours ago. Tai's taking the kids to see their grandparents for the rest of the week, so I figured I'd come back up. There's nothing wrong, Oz,” he added, looking amused. “What, you think I'd come here only if there was some crisis?”

Caught off guard, Ozpin hesitated to answer, and regretted it immediately when Qrow's smile dimmed. Qrow was one of a handful of people who paid him social calls, and the only one to do so frequently.

It was nothing against him. It was just Ozpin and his terrible habits.

“Okay, look, I did come here for a reason,” Qrow admitted, “but it's not bad. I wanna show you something.”

When the something wasn't forthcoming, Ozpin continued to stare.

“Outside,” Qrow clarified. “Way outside. Like, get-dressed-and-pack-light-'cause-we're-going-on-a-trip kind of outside.”

He couldn't have heard that correctly.

“I know everybody freaks out whenever you leave even the school, and that's...pretty shitty.” Qrow dropped a hand on his shoulder and nudged him around, gently pushing him in the direction of the bathroom. “It's fucking criminal is what it is. So we're gonna get you some fresh not-eastern-Sanus air and nobody is ever gonna find out because I really am that good. Oh yeah, wash your hair with this—“ Qrow handed him a small bottle. “We'll have an easier time if you don't look as much like yourself.”

Ozpin turned the bottle of hair dye over in his hands. He recognized the brand; water-based, cheap for ease, meant to wash out completely in a week. But Qrow couldn't possibly be serious, could he? “Qrow, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I don't think this venture is...wise.”

“You'll be fine. Trust me.”

“Of course I trust you,” Ozpin said. “But my absence _will_ be noticed.”

There was a considering pause as Qrow shrugged, looking thoughtful. “It's a holiday. Ain't nobody gonna be noticing much outside of celebrating. I bet you even the League of Evil Assholes is taking a break.”

The little twinge of pain below his neck seemed to support this theory.

“Come on, Oz. Let yourself have this.”

Ozpin sighed. He'd had too much as it was. But Qrow wasn't likely to leave him alone now, and the prospect of going out of the city again after so long—properly, and not alone—was too much to resist.

He was weak, after all.

\---

The thing about Qrow was that he was always catching Ozpin off guard.

The first time they met had been in the courtyard of Beacon's main entrance, where Qrow had been in the middle of smashing the fountain with his sword while trying to smash in the skull of his future teammate. And when Ozpin had slid neatly between them, his shield sparking violently under the combined violence of their attacks, Qrow had caught his eye and frozen in surprise, allowing his grip to slack, the blade trailing a crackling line down the wall of aura as it fell.

It hadn't taken long for that surprise to become anger.

_Fuck off, dipshit. This ain't any of your business._

The hush that settled over the gathered crowd had been spectacular.

_I'm afraid it is. You're having your brawl on my grounds, after all._

_What?_

_Dude, stop,_ Taiyang had hissed loudly from behind Ozpin. _He's the headmaster._

As Qrow had missed the entrance ceremony not fifteen minutes before, he wouldn't have known—

_No fucking way. You look as snot-nosed as any of the rest of them._

—but he likely wouldn't have believed it then, either.

 _Oh gods,_ Taiyang had muttered. _I don't like you, but you gotta shut up._

He'd had some trouble keeping his expression appropriately stern when Qrow had looked to Raven for confirmation and she'd nodded, looking pained.

It had, overall, been a more eventful day than he'd expected for his first as headmaster.

Ozpin had been twenty-five, newly appointed, and technically too young for his position, but the other headmasters had deemed him too necessary to continue risking on the field, not when it had taken years for him to resurface. And even longer just waiting for him to age up in this life. _You're too important_ , they'd said, and he'd stood there in silence taking it all in because there was nothing he could have said or done.

(They were wrong. If he were everything they believed him to be, he would have gotten it all done right the first time around.)

He'd done a year as the professor of Aura Studies at their behest, and he'd taken to it better than he'd expected. But teachers were still able to operate in the field, and Ozpin's wanderlust had been no secret. Some manner of Providence, then, that Beacon's headmaster had been getting on in years.

So strings had been pulled, favors called in, his personal history and extensive mission record vetted and touted until he'd felt sick with himself. The council had made worse decisions over the years, though that said very little for their judgment.

Ozpin at twenty-five had been—much less put together. The transition between souls had been slow going, and there had been many gaps yet to fill. At the time, he had been more a twenty-five year old fumbling through adult life as a hunter than the millennia-old soul with immeasurable wisdom that people needed. He had been too fractured to be of much use, and he'd known it utterly.

But then there was Qrow, calling him a snot-nosed dipshit. Tapping at his aura shield with the tip of his sword. Giving the most roundabout, aggressive apology, because he was sorry but also _Professor, with all due respect and everything, you don't look the part._

And though Ozpin had dug his nails into his palm to keep the traitorous smile from revealing his hand, he couldn't deny that he'd felt better about the whole thing after Qrow's refreshing bout of insolence.

In a way—many ways—Qrow kept him grounded over the years. Kept things in... _this_ particular perspective. Reminding him that for all he was a millennia-old soul with immeasurable wisdom, he was also twenty-five and would inevitably fumble on occasion.

Though Qrow had learned to curb his tongue in public for those four years in which he and his team had nearly leveled the school (mostly cheerful, only slightly apologetic), he'd never quite managed to resist the temptation to make the occasional jibe at Ozpin in the privacy of empty halls and, later, in Ozpin's office. Little things about how he couldn't _possibly_ be the headmaster because, as usual, he was too young—or too tall, or his shoes were too shiny, or he drank too much hot chocolate.

_Hot chocolate isn't a valid reason._

_But 'shiny shoes'_ is?

And Qrow didn't bother at all when those four years came up and all that ground had changed, with STRQ knowing more and Ozpin keeping them out of less, with Ozpin trusting enough to give his magic, and the Branwens willing enough to accept.

It bore a strange, unexpected consequence. Qrow had started taking it upon himself to periodically invade Ozpin's life between assignments—and Ozpin, weak in all the wrong ways, endeared to Qrow's irreverent and incessant badgering over the years, hadn't stopped him. He didn't want to.

Ozpin knew he would always have to be whatever was necessary at any time. A teacher, a leader—quiet words, a guiding hand—taking responsibility for all of it, because this was the immutable purpose of his life. He could not afford to be anything less. Everything was about necessity.

But with Qrow, he could be— _simpler_. Just another person. A friend. Because of him, Ozpin could have peaceful days—a quiet drink shared in the late afternoon; stories in the warmth of lamplight; laughter amid too many takeout boxes.

And for just those handful of moments, drops in the void of this endless cycle, he could pretend he was ordinary. Whole.

It was a gift he could never repay.

And somehow, with Qrow, he never felt like he was paying a price to simply _be_.

\---

Qrow was right. Where before it wasn't uncommon for him to receive extra glances and even a few nods from passerby as he went about Vale, it seemed that by throwing on a black coat and dyeing his hair brown he'd lost his identity.

It was oddly freeing.

He'd been apprehensive about leaving his scarf, though. He'd tried claiming sentiment, which wasn't entirely untrue, but Qrow had been adamant that the disguise wouldn't quite work. So he'd unwound his own scarf—a deep red, well-worn—and wrapped it around Ozpin's neck. Ozpin had been too shocked to move or protest.

_It's a good color on you._

Ozpin kept reaching up to touch it. He hoped Qrow wouldn't notice.

“You still haven't told me where we're going,” Ozpin said when they were well past the city border, heading further into the woods beyond the eastern gate. There was a port town less than a day's walk in this direction. It was relatively popular, being close to Vale, and it was also known for its frequent ferries to Anima.

“Wouldn't be a surprise if I did,” Qrow said, glancing at him with his customary smirk. “You said you trust me. No take-backs.”

There was a question in it. And Ozpin, caught unaware by too much in the last week and still reeling a bit from Qrow's sudden interruption of his attempt at hibernation, could only answer earnestly. “No, of course not.”

Qrow's smile was so open and sincere that Ozpin had to look away. The silence that followed them all the way to the port was charged, but what exactly with was not something Ozpin had the mind to name.

\---

It should have been worrying, perhaps, that the moment they were beset by Grimm, all Ozpin felt was restless anticipation. Excitement.

But he'd had many years to accept what he was.

And it had been such a long time, after all.

Most of the opportunities that gave Ozpin an excuse to stretch a bit came as training missions gone wrong, and those were, thankfully, quite rare (a rate of zero would be ideal, but Ozpin knew when to take what he could get). Between the competence of the faculty and the enthusiasm of the student body, Beacon saw very little in the way of extreme crises.

And he saw little in the way of combat. So if he was a bit more— _active_ —

“Maybe I should quit the day job,” Qrow called as he passed, his blade trailing wisps of shadow from his last kill. “Getting KSed by some geriatric—“ The rest was lost to the wind as Qrow took off for a Taijitu.

“Geriatric,” Ozpin muttered, affronted. He was thirty-eight. Moments later, when he felt Qrow bump against his back, he said, “I'm not stealing anything from you. You told me to take the left.”

“Yeah, well, you keep fucking spinning, so it's probably all left to you.”

That could very well be true. Ozpin moved away toward another Taijitu, partly because he had no reply that would save him any embarrassment, and partly because having Qrow so close—touching, even—set him on edge just as much as it soothed something within him. Something he didn't understand.

It had been nearly two decades since he'd fought together with anyone. Not since he was a student at Beacon. Not since Hazel. Ozpin had once been terribly efficient at this line of work, and he'd done most of it alone. It'd been easier that way.

But here was Qrow matching pace. Back to back, always close. There was something that felt decidedly _right_ about this. And Ozpin hated it, because it _shouldn't_.

Tightening his grip on his cane, he fell into the whirl and heat of the fight with renewed vigor, and tried not to think about anything much at all.

\---

There was a plan somewhere in this, Qrow assured him, tossing another branch into the fire. Ozpin found himself greatly amused as Qrow went further into his 'plan', but he didn't think it prudent to make that fact known. Except, when Qrow got to the bit where they were going to the next town to find a cargo pilot to smuggle them into Mistral, he couldn't help smiling. It had been many years since he'd had the opportunity to do anything so patently absurd.

He really did miss this life.

“So,” Qrow said, flicking open his water skein. “About that cup of glitter you gave me—“

It was unfortunate that the magic had ended up looking like something bought out of a crafts store, but if Qrow was about to tell him that he'd used it to make a gaudy card—

“—you didn't give me any instructions.”

Ozpin froze. Hadn't he written a note? He'd been a little unsteady by that point, but he could recall writing...something.

“We didn't inhale any.”

Oh, dear.

“Tai was glad to know it wouldn't explode, though.”

Oh, _dear_.

“Anyway, I figured it was like my little party trick.” Qrow shrugged. “You've said before that magic's mostly intent and instinct, right? But in the end, we decided not to use it—don't look like that, I'm not done.” He punctuated this with a pointed nudge at Ozpin's knee. “It's nothing against you,” he continued. “It's just, we figured something like that would be more useful some other time. You can't do it a lot, right? I'm guessing that was the first time you've ever—“ He vaguely waved a hand— “made it physical?”

Ozpin nodded. It hadn't been the most strenuous thing—imparting some of his magic to Qrow and Raven had put him out for much longer. But the exhaustion from his experiment still lingered even now, heavy on his limbs, tight around his eyes. Magic was more than a power conveniently stored; it was a part of him, deep in his blood and wound in his bones, as intrinsic to his being as his aura.

He'd pulled at it, unraveling the coil, and used more magic to cut a piece loose, and more still to force it to take a stable form. He'd spent more for the process than what had ended up in the cup.

A frivolous waste, some part of him still echoed, derisive and bitter and, honestly, completely right. But he didn't care. It was an infinitesimal amount, overall. Worth some small bit, a measure of gratitude to a dusty old crow.

He didn't have anything else of value to give.

“I was only joking, you know, back in your office.” Qrow's voice went low and soft as he rubbed self-consciously at his arm. “You didn't have to do it.”

“And you didn't have to do _this_.” Take him outside of the kingdom at some risk to himself. But here they were.

Qrow shrugged, looking away from Ozpin. “Kidnapping you isn't much.”

“It's more than enough.” More than he needed.

“Mm.” The silence that followed felt expectant. Then, while Ozpin threw another stripped branch into the fire, Qrow abruptly fulfilled it, saying, “You ever wonder what it'd be like if it didn't have to be?”

Ozpin looked up. “I don't follow.”

“You wouldn't, would you?” With a long, weary sigh, Qrow fitfully rubbed a hand over his face. “It's been a pretty long time since you came out to this neck of the woods, right? I think Tai's dog gets out more than you do.”

To be fair, Taiyang's dog got out more often—and farther—than many people. If Zwei had a mission record, Ozpin had no doubt it would rival several active hunters'. “It has been some time,” he settled neutrally.

“Eight years isn't really 'some time',” Qrow said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “'Some time' in normal speak is like. A couple months. Maybe a year or two. Eight years is, what, a tenth of your life gone?”

That was a rather optimistic estimate. He didn't think he was likely to live that long.

“I looked at your record. Way back when Raven and I—well, you know.”

When he and Raven had been gathering information for their tribe. Ozpin still looked back to that time with a particular fondness that only years of distance could give. They had been terribly creative.

“Did you know you've got your own cabinet? The records dude was like, 'oh, that guy.' You're 'that guy', Oz.”

“My apologies.”

Qrow snorted. “Wow, hit a new level of 'I don't give no shit' there.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smile fading. “So, here's the thing that really gets to me. You've been all over the place. Towns that are barely dots on maps, towns that aren't on maps anymore. Your mission list is way longer than mine—even without all the redacted shit—and I've got five years on you before you were forced off the field—and I know you were forced,” Qrow added pointedly when Ozpin started to frown. “Somebody like you, going into the hunter thing all in like that, would never have given it up on purpose.”

No, he wouldn't have. But there was something about acknowledging the accuracy of Qrow's observation that seemed like he would be giving too much of himself away, even though he wasn't exactly certain what that was. He'd kept to himself for so long that anything at all felt like too much.

“You know, before yesterday, I'd never seen you fight. Like, sure, there was that one time you poked some Ursa when you subbed for Peach, but that wasn't a fight. You didn't even look, then. Yesterday, though, you really went for it. And—“ Qrow paused, looking suddenly hesitant. “You said you were a kid when this weird curse thing happened—”

“Fifteen.”

“A kid,” Qrow repeated firmly. It wasn't pity. He was too agitated for that. “Look, I'm not saying I understand—but I kinda also know what it's like to be pissed off enough to get good at killing monsters.”

It wasn't—he hadn't been—“I had a skill,” Ozpin said, compromising. “It seemed imprudent not to cultivate it.”

“But did you want to?”

It was never about want. “I did what I thought was best.”

“Yeah. That's sorta what I'm saying. You're always doing what you think is best. You go into things with everything you've got. Being a hunter, being a teacher. Even being cursed.” Qrow's voice had grown lower, softer. “You give it your all, and you don't leave much for yourself.”

That wasn't right. “You're making all of this seem like more than it is.” Like Ozpin had done more than make the only choice he ever had.

“Nah. I think you've been making it less. When was the last time you did anything that really mattered for you?”

Now. Right now, being outside of the kingdom, being here with Qrow. It was small. Simple. And it _mattered_.

But he couldn't very well say that.

“Qrow—“

A deafening screech split the air, cutting off the terrible excuse he'd been about to spout off. The timing was blessed.

What decidedly wasn't was the Nevermore that suddenly scraped over the treetops and descended, talons snatching the air where Ozpin's head had been before he instinctively dived into Qrow. He was vaguely aware of Qrow's arms wrapping around his back as a second Nevmore passed overhead, the tailwind whipping out the campfire, throwing the charred remnants over them, spreading ash and ember into the air.

Qrow sighed into Ozpin's hair, sending a not unpleasant tingle down his spine. “Knew I should've stolen an airship.”

Unfortunately, the Grimm weren't enough to occupy Ozpin's full attention because he still found time for his face to start heating up. This was _ridiculous_. He rolled off and onto his feet with little difficulty, pulling Qrow up as he went along. Ozpin was unable to meet his eyes as he did so.

“Must be a nest nearby.” Qrow snapped out Harbinger, watching as the two Nevermore started their glide back. “Look at the size of those fucking things. How did we miss them?”

“It is quite dark.”

“Says the dude wearing sunglasses—“

“I can see over them—“

Qrow dropped to a crouch as Ozpin ducked and slid to the side, avoiding the Nevermore as they swooped once again. Ozpin knelt on one knee, digging his cane into the dirt distractedly, trying to think—

Something flashed out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over in time to see something large and gleaming fly past. Qrow was grinning, feverish and triumphant, hand outstretched—

_Oh._

A keening screech pierced the air, painful, blood-curdling. One of the Nevermore was swaying unsteadily as the other flew a wide circle around it. It passed close overhead, trailing wisps of shadow, and Ozpin saw the hilt of Harbinger embedded in its leg.

“Lecture me later,” Qrow said, dropping a hand on his shoulder. Before Ozpin could say anything, Qrow was engulfed in a familiar rush of magic—and then he was off, a small shadow darting into the night.

Ozpin followed, running.

The injured Nevermore focused on Qrow almost immediately, undeterred by his now much tinier form. Ozpin could just make out the shape of him weaving beneath larger wings—shifting to human again to pull out Harbinger—

Just as the blade came free, a talon shot out lightning quick, catching Qrow—his arm or his side, Ozpin couldn't _see_ —causing him to drop his weapon. Harbinger clattered to the ground a few feet from Ozpin, but he hardly noticed.

For an instant that felt infinite, as Ozpin watched Qrow fall, he felt his magic winding down cold in his blood, welling up from a depth he had never known in this life. His magic was finite, and there wasn't much left. But what was there felt hot, grating, and it willed him to let it _break_ —

But then there was a flash of red and a swirl of shadow, a tiny burst of magic—and Qrow was flying again. And he seemed particularly vengeful, energetically harassing the Nevermore by—it seemed—trying to peck out its eyes.

Ozpin breathed. Qrow was fine. Ridiculous, impulsive, _what was he doing_ —but fine.

His magic retreated immediately, leaving him feeling heady and sick. He swayed, head swimming, leaning on his cane for balance. He couldn't stop shaking.

But there was no time. The second Nevermore was circling back.

Ozpin retracted his cane, clipping it onto his belt. Then, carefully, he picked up Harbinger.

Back at Beacon, hidden in his closet, was a battered old leather case. He'd taken it out only once since he'd been forced to quit the field, and that had been to show a then twenty-five year old Qrow _'something to think about'._

_It's a dangerous weapon. I believe it will suit you perfectly._

_You're seriously giving me this?_

_There's no one else I'd rather give it to._

He had meant Qrow to take it as a sample. For research or practice, to take apart as he wished.

Ozpin no longer had any use for it. But Qrow had returned two months later, proudly twirling his newly forged weapon rather dangerously at Ozpin's teapot. This ludicrous behemoth that was both Qrow's sword and Ozpin's scythe—and Ozpin hadn't known whether to laugh or cry.

He'd only had one question, really. _Why?_

And Qrow had shrugged, belying the warmth of his answer. _It was still good._

Still good.

Ozpin watched the Grimm as it drew closer, and waited.

He stood his ground as the Nevermore dived, talons reaching—and he jumped, plunging the blade into the side of its neck. The Grimm thrashed violently as it took for the air again, bucking wildly to the sky, beating its wings with an unearthly, guttural scream that echoed over Ozpin's bones, making something in him want to curl up and scream with it.

He did not. Instead, he used Harbinger's hilt as leverage, swinging himself up the Nevermore's back as he compressed the lever. With a whir that was barely audible with the wind in his ears, the hilt snapped up and the blade snapped out, lengthening segment by segment into the creature's neck, choking off its screech into a wet gurgle.

And then he pulled.

The blade came through with little resistance, wet with dark blood for only a second before the sickly gleam went dull, turning into black, flaking tendrils as the Nevermore started to disintegrate into shadow, wisps carried off by the wind.

Ozpin fell through, momentarily swallowed in a stifling darkness, before emerging to the howl of freezing air—and a jarring fall onto more black feathers—

Oh. Well. He'd never been one to argue with convenience.

“Can't let you have all the kills,” said a familiar, gravelly voice by his ear.

Ozpin looked up just as Qrow snatched up Harbinger and bolted away with a jaunty wave. One quick, vehement plunge of the scythe blade into the Nevermore's skull stopped its confused thrashing, and Ozpin barely had the presence of mind to stumble up and grab Qrow by the sleeve before they were falling again, through the dark and out.

He felt Qrow wrap his arms around him, one over his back and the other over his head. It was comforting—and terrible. Ozpin was tempted to pretend, just for a second, that this was more than some instinctive worry.

But he would only feel worse, after.

Still, he put his own arms around Qrow. He could probably allow this much.

And, perhaps, a little more. He took a long, steadying breath—and _reached_. The world took on a slight, green hue as Ozpin wrapped his Semblance around them, the howl of the wind steadily dying to a gentle breeze, their descent slowing until they weren't hurtling for the ground at a speed that would turn them to paste.

It was almost peaceful, this slow fall, though Ozpin knew it could not last.

“This doesn't feel like magic,” Qrow said, so close to Ozpin's ear that he could feel his breath as he spoke.

Ozpin couldn't help shivering, and hoped Qrow would attribute it to the cold air instead. “It isn't.”

“Great. You realize this is probably _the_ most unfair Semblance ever, right?”

“It has it's limitations.” That he'd feel the consequences of tomorrow, but that seemed a long time from now, in this moment.

“So, did you cheat like this when _you_ got launched off the cliff?” Qrow asked, sounding amused.

“I didn't use my Semblance then.”

“Really? Fuck, I would have.”

Ozpin smiled. “It's too draining to use frivolously.”

There was a note of worry in Qrow's voice as he said, “Like, how draining we talking here?”

“Not so much that I can't use it for more than thirty seconds.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

He had the distinct feeling that Qrow was not convinced, but he didn't seem intent on pursuing the matter. Instead, he was rummaging for something in his pocket.

“Here. You dropped this while you were being heroic.” Qrow pulled back slightly, holding up the item in question—a red scarf.

_The scarf._

Ozpin felt himself go cold as Qrow's gaze inevitably slid down, his smile fading into wide-eyed shock.

“What—“

“Qrow—wait—“

“— _the fuck?_ Are you _serious_?”

There was anger in his voice, lighting his eyes—and Ozpin didn't know what to _do_.

His Semblance dropped.

All at once, time came rushing back with the howling wind. Ozpin tried to pull in the tattered remains of his Semblance—but he couldn't concentrate above the scream of the air, the painful thudding of his heart in his chest, the cold panic closing in his throat because Qrow had _seen_ —

But, inexplicably, instead of letting go, Qrow's hold on him tightened.

Ozpin froze, uncomprehending.

But he had little time to spare on it when they broke through the trees. With a startled shout, Qrow was wrenched from him as they were tossed over thick branches, crashing through the brush. Ozpin was barely able to gather his aura around himself when he fell on his side onto gnarled roots, coughing and wheezing as they dug hard into his ribs. He laid there a while, curled up to the base of the tree, just breathing.

Then, slowly, he rose to his feet, steadying himself with a hand against the trunk. A few feet away at the next nearest tree, Qrow had just rolled to his knees. He was staring, still a little wide-eyed.

Ozpin swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

There was a part of him that knew he didn't owe Qrow any kind of explanation. That Qrow had no right to look so— _betrayed_. But of all the people Ozpin hadn't wanted knowing about his mark, Qrow was the one that mattered most. Because Qrow was—he—

He was the only person who always let Ozpin _be_. Just as he was. Whatever that may be.

But there was no going back from this.

He wanted to explain. He wanted to say that there was a reason. Something, in all of this. He wanted to apologize.

But as Qrow stood, Ozpin remembered the look of dawning horror on his face.

_Are you serious?_

Qrow stepped forward, looking hesitant. “Oz—“

Ozpin turned and ran.

\---

He wasn't certain when he stopped, only that he'd intended to pause for breath in this little alcove made of roots—and then never quite managed the will to get back up again, despite the cold and the damp doing its best to seep through his coat. The conditions of his hiding place were really the least of his problems, though.

_Gods._

He couldn't quite believe he'd run away. It was ridiculous. Humiliating. He'd given into impulse and panic when he should have—well, _not_. But then, of course he ran. He was, after all, weak. In all honesty, he wasn't sure he regretted it. Anything had seemed better than staying, facing Qrow, trying to explain something of which he knew the beginning and the now, but not knowing which mattered more.

Ozpin didn't know if he would be able to handle the thought of Qrow looking at him from now on and thinking only of Salem's mark.

“Hey. We gotta talk.”

Ozpin instinctively backed up—hard into a set of roots that jabbed his kidneys. He set his jaw against the hiss of pain, glaring as Qrow's head appeared, upside down, as he leaned over the top of the alcove.

He wondered how Qrow found him so quickly— _oh_ , no, of course—“I regret giving you the ability to turn into a bird.”

“No, you don't. You're just saying that 'cause I use it to bug the hell out of you so much.” He seemed sheepish. "There room for one more?”

There wasn't, really. It was a very small space, and Ozpin himself did not fit in it entirely. He wouldn't be surprised if Qrow actually found him because his legs were sticking out. Ozpin sighed. “Yes.”

Qrow's head disappeared. His hand made an appearance, however, holding a lit oil lantern that Ozpin took and placed by his foot. Qrow reappeared fully a second later as he flipped over the little slope, dropping into a soundless crouch. Without any hesitation, he began scooting his way in, pushing at Ozpin to wiggle more to the side. Ozpin was practically trying to become one with his portion of the roots when Qrow managed to make his way in, unbearably close and terribly warm. Little by little, he let himself relax; there was no point in sitting stiffly when they were crammed like this.

“So, I realize I could have kept my stupid mouth shut.”

Ozpin risked a glance. Qrow was looking at him from the corner of his eye, his expression rueful.

“I freaked, no denying that. But I didn't mean to freak _you_ out. I'm sorry.”

His throat felt tight. It was a while before he spoke. “Don't be. I shouldn't have run.” He clenched his hand, digging his nails into his palm. “I didn't know where to begin.”

“Not trying to be an ass, but the beginning's usually good.”

“Which beginning?” Ozpin said bitterly. “The very beginning? My beginning? It's—of course it's all _mine_ , in some way—“

Qrow took hold of his hand firmly, causing Ozpin to stiffen, but he didn't seem deterred. He ran his fingers soothingly over tense knuckles until Ozpin finally loosened his fist. Qrow ran his thumb over the deep, crescent-shaped marks Ozpin's nails had left, his brow furrowed, eyes tight at the corners.

“Start from you,” he said quietly.

Ozpin wasn't certain he knew what that meant. But as Qrow continued his ministrations, Ozpin realized he was holding his left hand.

He could begin there.

“Before I became...this,” he managed, waving vaguely at himself, “I had a different mark.” Reluctantly, he took his hand back and rolled up the cuff of his coat, turning his wrist as he did. He was surprised when Qrow reached for his hand again, circling the area around the scar with a tentative finger. “It—“ _burned off_ — “stopped forming when I—inherited.”

“Salem.” Qrow stared at him, horrified. “That's what that is? You inherited the _mark_?”

Ozpin nodded.

“And, what, it just— _erased yours_?”

He smiled mirthlessly. “The inheritance process is thorough.”

“What a fucking _shithead_.”

“Yes, well, technically _I am_ that 'fucking shithead'.”

“Only sort of. Sometimes. Like, on weekends and bank holidays.” Qrow was smiling, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

“If only.” But he did feel better, strangely. With Qrow here, treating him as he always had. Perhaps little would change, after all.

Qrow's gaze fell back to his wrist. “Does it hurt? Your old mark?”

“It does,” Ozpin said softly.

“You—you really don't know who this is, then? At all?”

Ozpin blinked, frowning. “How could I?”

“Yeah. Right.” He was gentle as he passed his thumb over the welt. He looked up, thoughtful and uncertain, as he licked his lips. He let go of Ozpin's hand and started crawling out from under the roots. But he wasn't leaving. He was on his knees as he turned to face Ozpin, looking anxious.

“Okay. Look. I just want you to know that I'm sorry. And if you get mad, I—I'll understand.”

 _Ozpin_ didn't understand. Until Qrow removed the band around his right wrist and turned his hand up.

Written on the inside of Qrow's wrist in thin, black ink was Ozpin's full name. The terrible penmanship was unmistakably his own, the same close and looped writing he used for those damned council reports. The letters seemed fresh, edged with a painful-looking red, the skin around the tattoo pink and raised.

Suddenly, Ozpin couldn't breathe.

“This thing has always hurt,” Qrow said. “Everybody I asked said it wasn't supposed to. It's just another part of you that works in the background or whatever. Raven used to joke that maybe my soulmate was just pissed off all the time.” He looked down at his wrist. “Back then, when Raven and I were on our way to Beacon, my mark started hurting more, but it was also filling out more the closer we got to the school. It scared me, thinking I'd meet my soulmate and it'd be some hapless, sickly kid who could never know what I was. But it turned out a lot worse than that. I got into that stupid fight with Tai, and you showed up all high and mighty—“ Qrow shook his head at the memory. “I was so pissed. My mark was this huge, painful thing throbbing the fuck away, and you were just some pretentious asshole.”

Ozpin closed his eyes. He remembered the look of pure anger, the confused shock. At the time, he thought Qrow had merely been disgruntled that he couldn't finish his fight with Taiyang. He hadn't _known_. He couldn't have known.

“Until just now, I thought you were ignoring it on purpose, then. Didn't wanna be a creep or something, and I could respect that. So I took my cues from you. We kept to our own things and we coexisted pretty all right for a while.” He laughed, derisive. “But then I had to go and get to know you, didn't I? Had to become friends, didn't I? And it took like ten million years, but I found out you weren't really a pretentious asshole, after all. What you are is a pretentious disaster.”

A hesitant hand pressed itself against his, slowly, testing. Ozpin found himself gripping it without thinking.

“Here's the thing. I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you, and I've been for the last four years. And I think you feel the same way about me.”

Ozpin squeezed his hand.

“But I thought—maybe you were too caught up in this world saving bullshit to think you could have a life outside of it.”

 _Oh._ “...did you mean for this trip to be a _date_?”

“Secretly.” He sounded sheepish. “Thought if I kidnapped you enough times you'd get the fucking hint, since all my flirting was obviously going nowhere.”

Ozpin opened his eyes. “It _was_ on purpose?”

“You noticed?” Qrow said, matching his tone.

“I wasn't sure that was what you were doing.”

“Oh. I wasn't sure it was getting through.” Qrow grimaced. “We really are crap at this.”

Ozpin looked down at their hands, at the scar on his own wrist. It felt odd to have a name now when there hadn't been one for so long. Stranger still, that it was _Qrow_. But—did it count? Even though Qrow had his name— “I don't have yours,” he said, quiet and miserable.

Qrow seemed to understand. “That's okay.”

“But Salem's—“

“Just because her name's on you doesn't mean she can claim you,” Qrow said gently.

Ozpin ducked his head as his eyes started to prickle. He felt something loosen in his chest at those words, something that had been wound tight and unyielding for a very long time. In a way, he had always known this, but he'd never been able to believe it because—it was difficult when he had to see the mark every day. When almost everything he was, almost everything he did, was intrinsically tied to Salem.

Almost. But not everything.

Not the mornings spent sleeping in; the coffee he had to verbally spar with Glynda to earn; the pranks various students devised to catch him off guard; the late afternoons sharing drinks with Qrow; the quiet nights unwinding with his books. Those smaller, simpler things that had been lost to Salem a long time ago.

“Listen.” He heard Qrow shuffle closer, felt him slide over his lap, felt his hand settle on his cheek, warm and comforting. “This isn't about the universe's bullshit method for matchmaking. I don't feel the way I do because of some badly-placed tattoo. Yeah, we're linked together, even if yours is kind of fucked up. But that doesn't automatically mean we're good for each other. That's something we gotta decide for ourselves. And I have. I'm here because I got to know you, and I like what I've found.”

Ozpin raised his head, searching Qrow's eyes for some uncertainty. “Do you?”

Qrow's gaze was steady, warm. He answered with a soft smile, and then a kiss, his lips chapped and cool over Ozpin's. He brushed his fingers through Ozpin's hair, let them trail down and along his neck with an aching tenderness that took his breath and swelled his heart. Ozpin shuddered at the touch as he returned the kiss, gently.

Here, in the quiet and the dark, Ozpin allowed himself to feel, to believe.

\---

In the morning, still nestled beneath the arch of roots, Ozpin awoke to a hand rubbing slow, soothing circles over his back. He was immediately aware of two things: that Qrow radiated heat like a furnace, which was a blessing for Ozpin and his poor circulation—and that sometime during the night, Qrow had somehow rewound the red scarf around his neck. Ozpin brought a hand up to it, smoothing over the fabric thoughtfully as he listened to Qrow's heartbeat.

Beneath him, Qrow shifted. “So, now that you know this was just an excuse to get you outside—I didn't actually have anything to show you.”

“Mm.” It was too early for real words.

“Wanna go home? We can hang around my place, order a pizza, and—I don't know. Sleep more.”

That sounded wonderful. But first: “Five more minutes.”

Qrow let him have fifteen.

-

-

-

He had more of the easier days, now.

The days he slept in, the mornings when Qrow would enthusiastically pull him out of the shower for breakfast as soon as he turned off the water, leaving him no time to so much as glance at the mirror. More often than not, when he looked at the mark on his collarbone, he didn't dwell, and moved on.

And when he could not, he would remind himself of better things until he could. Of coffee at midnight and takeout in bed; of conversations by the fire and comforting silences in the dark; of Qrow's warm, calloused hands on his hips, their bodies pressed together, trembling, and lips trailing kisses that gently took him apart. Moments shared in pain, and pleasure, and laughter.

Once, there was very little he wanted to be reminded of.

Now, he was grateful there was so much.

 

 


End file.
